


Now is not the time for liberal thought

by pigeonstatueconundrum



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, but don't let that put you off, set in SPN universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3695177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonstatueconundrum/pseuds/pigeonstatueconundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paddy’s Irish Pub is the worst Hunter’s Bar in Philadelphia; unfortunately it’s the only Hunter’s Bar in Philadelphia. </p>
<p>The Gang survive by charging for their (dubious) hunting skills, selling monster parts on the black market and exploiting the ignorant and uninitiated. They sometimes sell beer. </p>
<p>the IASP/SPN crossover no one asked for</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now is not the time for liberal thought

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the Supernatural Universe but none of the characters from that appear. If you have never met the Gang before I'm sorry they are the worst.  
> Title from Bloc Party's Hunting for Witches

 

There was a dead Wendigo in the bar.

 

Frank was draining its blood using a garden hose and a garbage bin. The same bin Mac was sure they’d used to collect gas to sell door to door a few months back. Most of the blood seemed to have ended up on Charlie who was actually straddling the creature trying to pull its fang out with a pair of metal pliers. Someone in a half-hearted attempt to keep the floor clean had put down plastic sheeting. There were 5 cans of aerosol deodorant with cheap dollar store lighters taped to them with duct tape abandoned on the floor. Mac really regretted showing Charlie how to make a flamethrower in the third grade.

 

The whole place stunk of blood and Axe body spray. Frank reached around the body to serve a beer to one of the regulars, precariously balancing the hose in the other hand. Charlie was now pushing his feet against the Wendigo’s chest to get more leverage. With a grunt of effort and a cheer, the fangs had come loose and joint its brothers in a pint mug.

 

“What the hell Frank?” Dee squawked, rushing forward to grab the hose. Despite the plastic sheeting the place looked like a Tarantino film minus the racial slurs. It was early in the day though.

 

“Careful Deandra,” Frank warned, “Do you know how much Wendigo blood is worth? I’ve got a guy coming who might buy this lot in an hour.”

 

“Good luck with that.” Mac said gesturing to the abattoir the bar was fast becoming. “Dennis and I have a fake haunting to perform.”

 

He grinned at Dennis, shooting finger guns in his direction, “Who you gonna call?”

 

“Honey and Vinegar.” Dennis replied shooting back. His enthusiasm made something warm flutter in Mac’s chest. The Honey and Vinegar jobs were the best.

 

“Anway Frank. It’s one in the afternoon.” Dennis said, going to help his sister in a rare show is sibling synchronicity, “and the door isn’t even locked, anyone could walk in.”

 

“Why couldn’t you do this somewhere else.” Mac asked examining the aerosol cans on the floor, “I thought you had that sewer place.”

 

“Sold it. Got a good price from that Skinwalker couple last week.”

 

“Surely there was somewhere else who could have taken it.” Dennis pleaded trying to get behind the bar without being hit by Charlie flailing limbs. He’d finally loosened the final monster fang and had been thrown back with such a force that Charlie had nearly flung the tooth into one of the customers drink.

 

“Your place is already a shithole. Why not there?”

 

“Can’t at my place dude.” Charlie answered, rattling the pint mug under Frank’s nose for approval, “my landlord is already threatening to evict us after that poltergeist incident.”

 

“How lovely you’ve found a slum landlord with high standards. Ever since that rat infestation down in the basement this whole place has gone downhill.” Dennis mutters opening two beers and passing the other to Mac over the Wendigo’s head.

 

“The place wasn’t the Hilton to begin with.” Dee added, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were going to kill that thing, I should have been there.”

 

Charlie aimed his bloody gloves towards the trash ban that wasn’t full of blood. He missed and they lay listlessly on the floor. Mac picked them up gingerly and put them in the bin. It was already overflowing with empty bottles, herb stalks and broken bits of silver. He hoped Charlie wasn’t going to go through the rubbish and pick the silver out and try and smelt them again. Last time he’d done that Charlie had forgotten to open a window and had passed out. For three days he’d been terrified of visions of dancing pink dragons until the cats screaming in the alley had brought the fire department round.

 

“We didn’t invite you because you’d only botch the job like you always do.” Frank replied to Dee’s grumbling.

 

“Screw you. I’m the one who set the job up.” Dee cried, arms crossed and glaring at her father.

 

“You heard from a friend of a friend that an old house had ‘weird noises’ coming from it.” Dennis countered with sneer finger quotes.

 

“Yeah,” Mac agreed, “That’s not the same as setting the job up Dee.”

 

“I have skills.” Dee trieed again, “I’m a witch.”

 

They all groaned to drown her out, “Not this again.” Charlie moaned as he tried to settle more comfortably on the Wendigo’s chest.

 

“Dee,” Mac said, slowly as if speaking to the stupid child he saw his sister as, “We don’t care if you think you are a witch.”

 

“Why do you guys never support my magic?” Dee whined.

 

“Because it’s not real magic.” Dennis said, bored of the conversation already as he tries to move the now full blood bin into the office. When the buyer came round Frank would make a big show of producing the blood in a fancy cup. He always said that the black market dealers appreciated a show and Mac suspected a trashcan full of blood would not be the sort of thing he meant.

 

“You know a few phrases in Latin and you own cat.” Mac disagreed, eagerly moving to help Dennis with the bin. Dee’s Latin actually wasn’t too terrible, but Mac was not going to admit that. The Latin and religious stuff was his thing in the Gang and he didn’t want Dee moving in and taking over. The Latin, religious stuff and his brute strength, the gang would be lost without him Mac insisted to himself.

 

“That’s not really witchcraft. You haven’t even sold your soul.”

 

“No demon would want it.” Dennis grinned, high fiving Mac as they set the bin down.

 

“Apart from Rickety Cricket.” Mac corrected, wiping his sticky hands on his jeans.

 

Dennis smirked at his sister at the reminder of her admirer, “Oh yeah, Rickety Cricket. The demon the Hellhounds wouldn’t piss on if he was on fire.”

 

Dee flipped them the bid and stalked over to where Charlie is trying to get the Wendigo’s tongue out. Mac wasn’t sure what use that particular body part would be to anyone but he suspected he didn’t want to know. One of the regulars who had been bravely sitting near the bar finally moved to a booth at the back of the room with a concerned look at the vigour Charlie was waving the silver knife.

 

“Your mother,” Frank addressed his (non-biological) children, a misty look in his eye, “Now there was a witch.”

 

“She cast a spell over you and stole all of your money.” Dennis argued grabbing a few pink lidded Tupperware boxes from the office. Charlie needed to put the organs somewhere and if he was left to his own devices would probably put them in takeaway containers.

 

“She was an evil whore bitch from hell.” Frank agrees, “No doubt, but a hell of a witch. I bet she’s giving them hell down there now.” He saluted the ground with a  beer bottle stolen from Mac.

 

Dee huffed, “And she never let me forget it, always rubbing it in my face when she had her little coven get-togethers. I’ll show her who can’t make a hex bag.”

 

“Wait.” Mac said, the realisation dawning on him, “Your mum was a witch.” He asked Dennis.

 

Mac had always thought Frank called his wife a ‘witch’ in the normal sense. It had never occurred to him that he meant it literally.

 

“Yeah.” Dennis rolled his eyes, “I thought you knew that, everyone did.”

 

Oh shit. Although did explain a lot of things. He’d thought all those weird herbs and bottles on her bedside table was women’s stuff. And at the time letting her dog stay in the room while they were having sex had seemed odd, now it seemed down right suspicious.

 

Mac tried to make his face blank as terror coursed through his veins like adrenalins lines less useful cousin. So of course, Charlie chose the worst moment to re-join the conversation. “Didn’t you sleep with her?”

 

“What the hell Charlie.” Mac shouted, throwing one of the improvised flame throwers at Charlie’s head to shut him up.

 

Dennis stared at Mac. His face a mask of disgusted shock that made Mac’s chest tighten, “You slept with my mother?”

 

“I didn’t know she was a witch.” Mac said, trying to placate his best friend who was looking at him like something he’d found under the bridge.

 

“You slept with my mother.” Dennis insisted, “The fact she was a witch shouldn’t be the problem here.”

 

“No, no. It is,” Mac shook his head trying not to let it sting when Dennis flinched away from his seeking hand. “Because witches are evil, and sleeping with one is definitely a sin.”

 

The concept of sin had never been as real to Mac as when his father had sat him down and told him about monsters. It was the night before Dad was going to prison for the second time. He’d been caught breaking into a building site to kill a werewolf that had locked itself in a trailer. Before Dad could kill it the police had arrested him for trespassing and some other misdemeanours that Dad told him hadn’t been important in the bigger picture.

 

The bigger picture was that monsters were evil and needed to be killed. Even the ones that looked human had to be put down. They were a perversion of man who was created in Gods image. Every Witch, Werewolf, Ghost, Tulpa or Demon had no right to share the bounties of the earth. God had given it to man to protect and care for. Mac vividly remembers the vein in his father’s eye twitching as he spoke, the dried spit in the corner of his mouth and the shaking of his hands. He had never seen this passion that his father had shown for hunting in anything else. It was better than any sermon Mac had heard.

 

Hunters were Gods soldiers, his father had told him, His first line of defence against the godless monsters that He had no part in creating. To be a Hunter was a noble calling, one that came above all other cares of the body and soul. 

 

The next full moon he’d snuck out of the house and met Charlie by the building site gate. They’d broken in and watched in silent terror as one of trailers shook and howled. He remembered how small Charlie’s hand had felt around his. He told himself that that hand was the only reason he didn’t march over to the trailer and smite the monster. But he’d started into Charlie’s wide eyes, their breath misting before them, and he’d known his eyes were just as big.

 

Dennis had none of the glory and awe Mac had for hunting. His house was full of ancient books abandoned on tables under wine glasses and old weapons gathering dust next to the Christmas decorations in the attic. But Dennis looked the part. Even covered in blood and gore or drunk off of his head he looked like how Mac knew hunters should look.  Like an avenging angel ready to smite those not created in Gods loving image. Mac was lucky to have such an angel to help him on his righteous path.

 

But angels didn’t have witches for mothers.

 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me your mother was an evil witch.”

 

Dennis looked ready to punch him, “I can’t believe you slept with my mother.”

 

“Heh.” Dee said. Why was she still here? “Not all witches are evil.”

 

“Oh my God Dee shut up.” Dennis howled at his sister, “No one cares.”

 

“Everything that is supernatural is evil.” Mac insisted, his father’s words ringing in his ears. “We don’t deal with moral ambiguities, we’re not fucking Winchesters.”

 

There was a brief mumble of agreement at that last statement, one few regulars in the pub even raised his glass.

 

“Do you seriously not see the problem with what you’ve done?” Dennis asked.

 

Mac bit his lip and looked up at Dennis with his best pleading eyes. That usually worked. It wasn’t even hard to fake feeling sad; having Dennis cross at him always brought this out of him.  “I’m sorry?” he ventured.

 

Dennis threw his hands in the air and stormed out. Mac’s heart felt like it was trying to follow him by the way it thumped in his chest. “Wait Dennis. I’m sorry. Are we still on for Honey and Vinegar?”

 

But there was no reply. Dennis had gone. Mac felt as Charlie came to stand next to him. His silent support helped, a little bit.

“I’m not going to be able to help you with the honey and vinegar thing either dude.” Charlie admitted. “Got to help Frank with this buyer.”  

 

He waves at the direction of the carved up Wendigo with what appears to be the monster’s liver in his hand.

 

“Who is going to help me with it then?”

 

“Well…”

 

Mac followed Charlie’s gaze to the figure at the end of the bar. He groaned. “Oh, no.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know i promised i would write the Gang still own a Gay Bar fic but this headcannon would not leave me alone. so watch this space for that one
> 
> as always comments are much appreciated and I'm at http://pigeonstatueconundrum.tumblr.com/ is you want to say hello


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